Halo: Action Journal
by Boris the Invincible
Summary: Foster enlists into the UNSC Marine Corps and takes unexpected command of a unit of recruits on the planet Mryss,where he loses many squadmates and a close friend to the Insurrection.His loss will be far greater when he is drafted into the ORION project.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Gamma Centuri system, planet Carpacy, ONI Section Three research and medical centre, 2511, 4th April, 1200 hours

"Hello, Gunnery Sergeant Foster. It's been a hell of a long time," said a sickeningly familiar voice through the darkness of his eyelids. They were illuminated red by some strong, glaring light shining on his body. He was lying on a somewhat hard bed, and he could not move his limbs. They must be shackled.

He opened his eyes, but immediately regretted it. The image he caught in the instant in which he was not overwhelmed with pain showed him a domed, white room, bathed in high-intensity lights. Sterilized tabletops glinted with surgical tools and syringes, and monitors around his bed displayed his vitals. His pulse spiked.

"Easy, Michael. You've had a rough day." This was another man, with a much kinder voice. "I apologize for your lack of feeling in your extremities. It's a side-affect for the anaesthetic we administered after the accident. Your control will return."

"Where am I," he choked dopily through the painkiller. "What happened?"

"Of course you don't remember. You were a victim of a reactor malfunction aboard the _Orienteer_."

Something wasn't right here. The man's voice was too kind, and the other… why would he be here? They hadn't seen each other in years. That man was classified MIA last he'd checked.

"I suppose that's a side affect of the anaesthetic as well?"

The kind man, who he presumed to be a physician by his long white coat and pager, smiled, wrote something down on a metal clipboard, and looked back at him. "There's really never been a sufficient replacement for the good old pen and paper, don't you agree, Mr. Foster?"

"Doctor, why. am. I. here?" He accented every syllable, demanding more than asking this time.

"You're a bright man, aren't you, Sergeant Foster?" He patted Foster's hand unhelpfully. "That's good. You'll do good."

He muttered something to the other man, then turned and a door opened seamlessly to admit him to what looked like a control room, and closed with a sharp hiss.

"You're here because you were selected to be here, Michael. You're special, one of a few who will become an elite corps of warriors. You will fight the Insurrection like no other, and be the best."

"Don't call me by my first name, you bastard! Don't assume that we're still best pals."

The man tilted his head curiously. "Alright, we'll play it your way, Sergeant. I'm Spartan X001. You're here to become like me, like my brothers in arms. You'll become a Spartan."

"And a pawn of Lord Caster?" he said incredulously. "Never. I won't agree to this operation."

"You have no choice, Foster. They chose you. There was nothing I could do."

"Bullshit. Get me out of this and you'll have your choice."

X001 bowed his head in regret. "I'm sorry. That would be desertion, punishable by death. This operation… It takes away your will to act, your humanity. I'm afraid that I can't say you'll be alright. Good bye, Michael."

"You son of a bitch!" His plea was on deaf ears as his long lost friend exited the room, and nodded before the door shut him out.

Foster twitched, screamed, and attempted to kick out of his neural restraints, but the blockage was complete. The bed tilted backwards until Foster was lying on his back, and he felt needles pierce his skin everywhere. The next thing he saw were the lit undersides of his eyelids, and he was out.

_We all die sooner or later. My fate was sooner. I live in a time of war, but I never thought that I lived by corrupt principles. By time of reckoning is now, the day I lose my humanity to the machine of war. _


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Foster's action journal

December 18th, 0310 hrs. 2501, Alpha Quadris system, camp Altari, planet Mryss

The horn blew just after three in the morning, beating its repetitive pitches and squeaks into his nearly-bleeding eardrums. Private Michael Foster knew better than to spring up in his flattened cot and hit his sweating forehead on the top bunk—occupied by an equally-irritable platoon-mate who had also likely refrained from springing into a rigid, horizontal combat stance. The recruits were always ready to react to anything.

As his frayed nerves calmed to his normal level of paranoia, he slid his legs out of bed, rubbed his bleary eyes, and slipped into his clothes. Once he had donned his fatigues, shirt and boots, he and the other clothed privates trooped out of the low, green tent.

A tall, dark, camouflaged figure stood outside, a shadow in the predawn, inky black.

His voice was hoarse from lack of sleep and long days of hard exercise when he spoke. "Rise and shine, ladies. Front and center!"

They lined up and stood rigidly before Staff Sergeant Kirkwood, eyes forward to the horizon. Not even a hint of sunlight.

"Well," Kirkwood said in a crisp, cheery tone, with much animated motion of the head. "Since it's a week to Christmas, I'll skip the chit-chat, and just make you drop and do… a hundred."

He was in a good mood, no doubt looking forward to going to his home on Tribute and his wife and kids. Michael felt the same, but he had to do the push-pus.

He dropped and lowered his nose to the moist grass.

After his first fifty, he broke a cold sweat and breathed with ragged rasps. He forced his toned muscles to push his body up and down.

"Halt, marines. You girls've done enough push-ups for the day. Now you run!"

Foster fell into step behind the others as they trooped behind their chanting instructor.

Ten long, half-kilometre laps around the field saw them back at the tent, massaging their feet and groaning.

Higgins at the other side of the group was rocking back and forth on his bench, breathing through his teeth and sporting roughly blistered feet. He hadn't tied his boots tight enough.

After they had recuperated from the run, it was almost sun-up, the rays of Alpha Quadris just cresting the far-off horizon.

At the shooting range, Foster was a crack shot. He could gun the centre of mass from two hundred meters with an SRS 99C high-powered sniper rifle, no scope style.

Today's challenge was no different. One man-sized target, ten-centimeter kill-zone, and a standard MA3B assault riffle.

He heard the Staff Sergeant yell, "fire!" and deafening bursts of fire echoed throughout the sunlit valley. Michael squeezed the trigger of his AR and peppered the torso with bullet holes with a five-round burst, then shredded the paper head. The sheet flopped dead to the ground, and Foster stepped back, eyeing the Sergeant, who nodded approvingly.

Private Christopher Reinhardt got a kill soon after and shouldered the barrel of his rifle easily and massaged his armpit where it had bruised from the recoil.

"Nothing like some black and purple to keep you on your toes," said Kirkwood sympathetically. "But it's nose to the brimstone today, son!"

He turned to address the platoon at large.

"We're gonna' do a nice, fun SS today, ladies."

Private foster knew what that meant. SS stood for skirmish scrimmage, but since the good Sergeant didn't like the sound of that, he just went with the acronym. He rather enjoyed this activity, because there was always a squad leader and the underdogs on each team. He hoped that he would finally be picked.

"Form a line, gents."

They all formed up single file, and Sergeant Kirkwood moved every other soldier to one side, forming equal teams of fifteen.

Next they grabbed their magazines of rubber ammo and loaded their choice weapons, and stocked up a small supply cache. They all suited up in armor, then sensor gear at vital points to detect lethal and wounding shots.

The Staff Sergeant pointed to the centre of the large, gravel motor-pool where a 100-foot D77-TC Pelican Dropship squatted on its three-tred landing gear, its stubby wings casting long shadows across the Warthogs and Mongoose ATVs parked in long lines on the rocks. "Into the Pelicans, boys. Move it or lose it!"

The teams each filed into separate Pelicans, loading duffels into safety nets and storing weapons under safety nets.

Michael hefted a large sniper rifle, sighted through the scope, moved it closer to his body, and was satisfied. Chris fitted a small scope and silencer on an SMG, then pocketed an M6S and grabbed a fistful safety netting above his shaven head.

Dust flew and turned to glass as it always did as the pelican powered its lift-thrusters and closed its hatches.

The bloodtray compartment went dark but for two red lights near the cockpit door, and all was quiet.

"Hey," Chris's voice said in the dark and over the trundling engines. "Anyone got a light? 'Cause I got a Sweet Williams here that says red team's gonna win this round."

"I'll place a bet," said Michael, chuckling. "Two dollars, my life's savings."

They all roared with laughter at the truth of the statement.

A voice crackled through the overhead speaker.

"Recruits, you read me?"

They all spoke at once. "Loud and clear, Serg'."

"Damn straight. Mission details. This ain't just a game of ring the bell, but full-out murder. Wipe out the other team, and you win. Sound easy?"

"OOH-RAH!" was their well-spoken reply.

"Fine job. Get tactical!"

At that order, there was a flurry of clicks and jerks of movement as clips and shells were shoved home with more-than-necessary enthusiasm, and helmets were mounted on buzz-cut heads.

"Nothing to it," Michael muttered habitually into his mouthpiece. "Nothing to it."

"Green light in two, boys," Kirkwood's voice roared over the engines. "Gear up. Chris, you're squad-leader. Good hunting."

Michael bit his lip, but said nothing.

"Hey," said Chris, noticing his unease. "You'll get picked one of these days, guaranteed."

Foster nodded, and pulled at the hammer of his SR, chambering a twenty-caliber round into its long barrel. "Nothing to it."

The pilot door slid open and the copilot yelled back into the bloodtray. "Coming in for landing. Get ready."

They all squared their shoulders. Foster hoped every battle could be like this.

Chris cringed suddenly in his seat, and Michael felt it too. His ears popped as air depressurized from the cabin. But that couldn't be right. If the hatch were opening, they would be on the ground, unless they planned to drop, in which case they had no chutes and they were all screwed before they even got dirt-side. That wasn't it, though.

The whole aft hatch turned cherry red, liquefied, and fell away onto the trees below.

Chris screamed as bits of the titanium burned through his sensor suit and onto his skin, and he was pulled out of the bloodtray.

Next moment, the Pelican troop transport skewed off course, pulled up, and careered over the valley wall.

"AA pulse!" Michael yelled forward, recognizing the heating effects. "Someone get the pilot we're being attacked, and get the Staff Sergeant on the COM."

Billy ran forward, but MacKay turned towards him and advanced.

"Who died and made you second, squirt?" he asked venomously, looking him straight in the eye.

"Chris," he said with all conviction. Though that was strictly not the truth, Foster felt that he needed to take action, and as the friend of the ranking officer, the only ranking officer, it was his duty to carry on without him. "Now get on the COM. We need evac. Give a full SitRep, and ask for assistance."

Billy emerged from the pilot's compartment. "The Pelican's steady, but sensors are showing multiple contacts. We should set down."

"Agreed. Tell him to find a spot, and touch down. After that we're bailing."

Billy nodded, and stumbled back into the cockpit.

Private Foster looked back out of the burned hole and saw a shape in the now-brightly-lit sky. A jagged collection of guns and missile-holes dotted the flying shape in odd places, built to pack a lethal punch from a high position, floating on a huge central rotor.

"I have the Staff Sergeant on the COM," McKay yelled to him. "Requesting confirmation of Covenant threat-origin."

Foster looked back at him. The Phantom was Covenant, alright. And it was firing like crazy on what must be the blue team Pelican dropship.

"Affirmative."

McKay forwarded his affirmative to the Sergeant, but then he heard his voice rise.

"Say again, sir. You're breaking up…"

A long, guttural hissing sound preceded more red, this time from the wing hydraulics.

"Brace!" was all Foster had time to yell before the Pelican went pin-wheeling through the air, and into the forest.

* * *

"Hey. Sir, you okay?"

No. He certainly was not OK. The dull throb in his head reminded him distinctly of Kirkwood's favourite air-horn times ten, with a hint of stun-baton, and Brad, the slowest, and least-coordinated of their bunch, slapping him wasn't helping him in the slightest.

"Adrenaline," he heard someone say, on the fringes of perception.

_No, no! I'm okay. No adrenaline-_

He sat up with a yelp, and half of a short needle broke off in his shoulder.

"Argh!" he grunted, right in the face of the startled recruit. He didn't like needles in the least. It was the most complete violation of his personal space possible, and his brain instinctually banished the idea.

Brad smiled uneasily, and got up.

"Good, you're awake," said one of the Pilots, a Warrant Officer Wilhams. "Now pleas, relinquish command, you stupid-ass greenhorn. I'm the goddamned ranking officer. I should've taken command from the start!"

"You seemed busy," Foster retorted, scratching at the bit of metal in extreme irritation. "So I assumed command of the situation backstage. But if you'd like to take that Magnum to point and gallantly lead on, by all means. But you'll be bio-vapor before any of us will have a chance to fire."

The pilot looked disconcerted, then angry. "I don't need a lecture on the risks of war from a no-good greener. You've never even seen an Innie in action."

"My apartment building on Harvest fell with my grandparents inside it when Colonel Watts attacked. Sure I've seen them. Besides. You've received minimal tactical and medical training, where as we're marines. You drop us, we fight. That's the way it works. Go back to your cockpit, Warrant Officer. I'm taking command. We got lethal ammo in the weapons?" he asked Brad.

"Yessir, we replaced them just after we… Landed."

Wilhams looked on the edge of arguing, when the squad heard heavy footsteps, and the rustling.

"Infantry," said the frightened Officer. "We need to go."

"Agreed," replied Foster. "Recruits, fall back! Take weapons and fall back!"

The clearing of thick, temperate trees scrambled as wounded were shouldered, duffels were hefted, and weapons were cocked and shouldered.

"Fireteam, cover our retreat!" Squadleader Foster ordered a group of five, and the crackle of AR fire filled the forest.

Grunts of men and creeks of hit trees followed the group as they walked backwards, guns blazing. A retaliatory volley of bullets immerged and took down two recruits, one groaning, one dead.

"Fall back," he finally ordered, priming a grenade and throwing it into the trees. He shouldered the wounded recruit, fired, then ran for his life.

The trees all around him lit on fire, and flames from flame-throwers scorched at his already blistered heels. He looked back, but only saw glaring eyes bobbing in the darkness of the trees.

He fired back, and the eyes snapped shut momentarily, before speeding up.

They came into a clearing, and made for the other side of the trees.

Fire erupted from their right, and screams from the downed men sounded before they were silenced. Foster skidded across the dewy ground, then lurched to a stop and looked around.

The entire blue team held ARs, still leveled at the bullet-riddled carcasses laid out on the forest floor.

"You boys crash?" asked the blue team squad leader, a dark-skinned, dour-looking private over the sights of his BR55 Battle Rifle. "Private Daniels, Blue Team squad leader."

"Yeah. Innies burned our wings off," Warrant Officer Wilhams replied with a bitter edge to his voice. "I just don't get why they don't glass the base, though. We should be dead right now, not running."

"Don't jinx it, Warrant Officer. You can still go back and get obliterated by that vulture, no doubt."

Wilhams shrank back and let Foster talk.

"Private Michael Foster Red Team squad leader. Five casualties, one KIA. One missing, fell into the valley. Warrant Officer Thistle was dead on impact. You got medics?"

Daniels motioned his medics forward, who administered biofoam and adrenaline to the downed recruits, who slowly rose and shook their heads clear.

"We need to rendezvous with command and gather ordnance ASAP, then hole up in the base and wait for Navy evac." Foster looked at Daniels, and said, "I won't argue with you, soldier. You have my command, but I still have Red Team. Agreed?"

Daniels nodded, but not before crouching and glancing around him. He raised his MA3C Assault Riffle and listened. Faint booms were echoing off the valley wall and getting louder. Nearer.

"We need to keep moving," commented Wilhams predictably to unanimous metallic clicks of loading cartridges and magazines.

"Scout teams, do your job. Fire teams, flank, and wounded are with me and Foster," ordered Daniels in a raised voice to compete with the noise of explosions in the distant regions of the woods.

The scout teams dipped their fingers into pouches of brown and earthy green powder and smeared their faces with the substance, then pushed ahead through the trees. Foster and Daniels raised their rifle stocks to their cheeks and advanced twenty meters behind the scouts.

"Nothing to it."

Daniels turned to Michael with a questioning look. "What?"

"Sorry, sir. Just nervous," he said, quieting.

"I got your six," he said. "We'll find your boy."

Foster nodded, and stomped ahead, Assault Riffle pointed.

One minute later, he cycled through the radio channels, waiting for a response.

"Private Reinhardt, this is acting squad leader Foster, please respond. Come in, Chris." All that he heard was static. The radio was devoid of chatter on all local channels.

Wilhams put his hand on his shoulder. "You know the rules, kid. Ten more minutes and he's a goner."

Foster blinked rapidly at the blunt statement. "How uplifting, Warrant officer. You really should have been a shrink instead of a pod jockey." Michael got a small amount of satisfaction from the outraged expression on Wilhams's face before blood spurted out of his broad chest and sprinkled the ground. The Warrant Officer's eyes rolled, then he fell forward into the grass where a puddle of dark blood grew to soak his grey flight suit.

"Ambush!" someone yelled, then fell dead with a hole in his skull.

Bangs of familiar guns sounded from their left, the scouts flanking the force and readying them for an all-out firefight. They would be cut down, but they would save lives.

"BRs into the trees, three-o-clock," ordered Foster over the clatter. "Full auto on my mark. Mark!"

The trees in front of the wounded and fireteams exploded, covered in shredder rounds in seconds, and screams and barks were heard in the shade beyond them, aliens falling to the ground.

He held up a closed fist to signal stop, and they ceased fire, lowering their weapons and whipping their foreheads. A red stain was spreading across the ground and washing over their boots. Dead.

Static rippled over the TEAMCOM in his earpiece, and Foster and the others tuned into the frequency. A faint voice barely spoke, and trembled with every strained syllable.

"This is Squad leader Reinhardt, calling any UNSC forces in the local area, need immediate med evac ASAP."

A thrill of excitement went through Michael, and he toggled his COM. "This is acting squad leader Foster, need your position, over." The team waited with baited breath for the reply.

"Dropping beacon. I need help. My legs are screwed, I can't walk." His breath was getting hoarser by the second, his pulse quickening on the team vitals that now displayed Reinhardt's signs.

"We're coming, Chris. No worries, we have medics. Just stay put, and don't fall asleep."

"How the hell am I going to fall asleep, you moron?" Chris laughed over the shaky connection. That was good. He didn't have a concussion. "See you when I see you."

The connection closed, but the COM beacon pulsed firmly in his HUD over his right eye.

Wilhams approached through the tall vegetation with a glare in his eyes. "Our primary mission is to get back to base and report to our commanding officer, and that man would not be Chris Reinhardt. Now tell me you're not going after him."

Foster looked away and pondered the throbbing NAV point, looking for Reinhardt and knowing that he couldn't abandon him to the Innies.

"Come on, Foster," he yelled, grabbing him by the padded shoulders and making his bruised shoulder bleed again and jarring the needle. "He's a dead man!"

"Get your hands off of me, soldier!"

Wilhams recoiled from the contact as if shocked by Foster's sudden vigor.

"The valley's being bombarded, and we don't have contact with the Staff Sergeant." He pushed the Warrant Officer away and loaded his MA3C with more force than was necessary. "We're pulling him out."

* * *

Staff Sergeant Kirkwood looked up into the red-lit sky, filled with mortars and AA fire. His officers and DIs (Drill Instructors) were flipping tables, welding doors, and gathering ammunition from the fortified magazine.

The flood-lit motor-pool had been flamed hours ago, now craters of smoldering molten rock.

The reinforced nature of the lower base was the only thing that saved it from the fate of the observation tower, which was now a burning ring of debris around the base. A constant haze of dust filled the doomed building.

"Sir," yelled one of the DIs from a security console across the room. "Sensors show a new COM beacon inside the valley. IFF shows friendly contact."

"Probably injured, or a downed pelican. Best just leave them be. Any contacts?" he asked, angry at the unnecessary diversion of the DI's attention.

"Yes, sir. Bearing south southwest exactly, and lots of 'em. Looks like they've got armor, too."

Kirkwood hesitated. "Damn. Why're they comin' in so big today?"

"Sir," his sniper from the decimated rooftop shouted. "Visual contact, twelve o'clock. Your call."

He looked up at the sniper dubiously. "What do you think, fool? Fire at will!"

Rockets and snipers and rifle-fire opened up and peppered the edge of the motor-pool and obliterated the razerwire perimeter with sprays of lead. The Insurrectionists fell, clutching bleeding wounds too numerous to stem.

A small Wolverine enforcer tank trundled into the kill-zone, rounds clinking off its armored shell. It belched ten-inch bullets out of turrets and rockets of its own streaked to find well-placed marks near the windows. Kirkwood cursed as one of the rockets died in an instant of fire and shrapnel. They didn't have the weapons for armor.

"Fall back! Take the back door into the woods."

They all heard his command, and ceased fire at once, and retreated a couple of paces, before the Innies realized what was happening, and immerged with waves of killing fire. His DIs fell in seconds, and he was the only one to bolt the door behind him and run into the trees, following the COM beacon to whatever re-enforcements waited.

* * *

Chris's COM beacon read twenty metres twelve o'clock, still showing a strong signal, and his vitals were OK, but Foster had a bad feeling about what lay past the trees in the grass. The feeling had no grounds and was completely irrational, but hi signalled for a full stop and quiet with an upraised fist.

He heard Daniels's voice over the COM urgently. "What's up, Foster?" he whispered. "You hear something?"

Foster took one more survey of the forest ahead, and was on the edge of leaving…

The scouts' vitals all redlined at once, then died and blinked out with bleak chirp of noise.

"Open fire, twelve o'clock!" Daniels yelled to the team over the TEAMCOM, and they all squeezed triggers into the trees. MA3Cs sprayed shredder rounds for ten full seconds, then Daniels drew a hand across his throat and listened for signs of life. "No Innies. Advance, rifles up, ears opened."

Foster raised his rifle to his cheek and stepped over the brambles and brush on the forest floor, making as few of the growths rustle as possible. The large force would be detected with ease if anyone was there, but they all persisted in the nervous habit as they nosed through the bushes.

Foster stopped dead, seeing the rising light reflecting off a pool of red, followed by a jagged smear, and a sharp drop.

"Sir," Brad broadcasted uneasily. "Innies. They're all dead, sir."

Daniel turned to Foster. "Acknowledged. Foster, what have you found?"

He worked his way through a thicket of sharp thorns with the muzzle of his MA3C and looked over his shoulder.

"I think I've found Chris, sir," Foster said, barely able to keep his voice steady at the sight of his friend's last bid for freedom. He must have redlined sometime during the fall, then ended at the bottom beneath the canopy of the valley floor.

Daniels put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed firmly. "Come on, soldier. We need to move."

Foster turned from the gruesome scene, and saw the dark shape of a rolled Sweet Williams cigar amongst the dead winter leaves. He picked it up and pocketed it, then crushed the COM beacon under his boot and marched to the main force, who were stripping the scouts of their weapons and dog tags. "Rest easy, friends. I suppose we all die sooner or later."

Krikwood immerged through the trees, led them all to his hidden warthog, and they exfiltrated to the closest extraction zone, which took them to the _Orienteer. _The ship jumped out of the system, bearing them all to the closest training facility, their hearts heavy with the losses of the dead.

_Good bye, Chris. You were a hell of a soldier. _


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Foster's action journal

Alpha Tantari system, Tribute, Trinity Holy Catholic Church in Kilk city, 2510, January 2nd, 0200 hours

Michael sat on the bench facing the alter adorned with candelabras of gold with glowing candles, making facets of the shining statue of the holly son glitter. A high roof soared to meat the heavens, and a thousand organ pipes walled the mass area from the inner chapel. He stared down on Foster today with cold judgment, not with mercy or pity for his loss.

Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, but his face was perfectly set. His muscles strained against the black suit he hadn't worn in years, and his aviator-style glasses hung from a breast pocket.

The funeral was over, but Michael had to live with the fact that he would be the next to sacrifice himself for the ideals of the Lord. He was fully willing, but he did not think he could inflict so much pain on his family, knowing what he had been through. Nothing would be the same again.

He heard a cracking sound, and saw that he was crushing the seat in front of him with his clenched hand and quickly stopped.

A priest immerged from behind the great wall of the organ, and stepped down from the chapel, looking down on Foster's kneeling from.

"You look as a spectre, my child. Your heart is troubled."

Foster looked up with shadowed eyes. "All due respect, father. Cut the Bullshit. What do you want?"

Father Antoine exhaled slowly and looked a little more solemnly down on Michael. He knew he wouldn't stand for anything other than the truth, but he didn't fear Foster. The two of them went way back.

"I understand you loved him like a brother," he said, and Foster trembled anew. "But life goes on. It could have been you. It could have been Bradly. You must understand this. You put yourself into God's hands when you joined the United Nations Space Command. Christopher's destiny was to die in combat, a glorious death indeed. I understand that he fought gallantly and to the last." He put a hand on Foster's now quaking shoulder, bobbing with fresh sobs. "He is where death cannot reach him now, a place where he will take refuge from war. You must envy Chris, but not follow him. Remember his name, fight in his name if you must. His death was not for nothing, Michael."

"Wasn't it?" Foster looked away from Father Antoine. Unable to look the sympathetic priest in the eye, or regard Jesus in his judgemental demeanour, he simply put his forehead on the seat in front of him. "He fell. I couldn't do anything. I failed him. We have a saying that Kirkwood always used to preach to us; lives wasted, or lives spent?"

Antoine sighed in exasperation. "You are focussing on the negative, Michael. His was spent. He died so that another could survive. Destiny rarely calls us to duty at a moment of our choosing, but Chris had that luxury. He turned and fought, instead of running from the inevitable. Don't run, Michael."

With that, Father Antoine touched Foster's head, and turned to re-enter the chapel.

Lilly, his wife, was there to greet him when he came to the house an hour later, parking his Volkswagen Prospector in the asphalt drive. She was pretty, as always, but a tad scruffy, as she had been preparing dinner and keeping their ten-year-old son in line while he played in the back yard.

Their house was situated right in the middle of Tribute's only area that could really be called a rural establishment. Their neighbours were a mile down the dirt road, and farm land stretched to the horizons in great rows. JUTON combines roved on automated paths harvesting the crop of the season.

"Michael, I thought you needed some time, so I went ahead with Mitch and made supper." She whipped flour off her hands on her apron and approached him. "I hope you don't mind."

Michael shook his head, leaned forward and kissed Lilly once, then looked past her to see Mitch making theatrical retching noises and retreating into the kitchen.

He smiled at the familiar sight and turned back to Lilly. "It's good to be home."

As soon as he entered the house, Mitch tackled him in the waste, and he recoiled with generous exaggeration, then ruffled his hair and plunked himself down at their old scrubbed kitchen table.

He was amazed when he was able to tell Mitch off for flexing his biceps at the dinner table and sternly advise him to eat his salad. It was all so mundane, so regular. He remembered that Mitch had school the next day, and that he and Lilly would have the entire house to themselves, and that Patrick and the guys from the shipyard would be at the pub in the evening after a hard day`s labour. He knew that he would be called to his irksome duties on their vast farm by his wife, but neglect them in favour of frolicking and having wheat-throwing fights. He was home.

When they had finished dinner, they all retired to bed. Foster watched through the doorway of Mitch's room as Lilly sang him his favourite lullaby, Stars and the Moon, as she pulled the covers up to his chin. He watched his eyes flutter closed as the song reached its conclusion, and a serene expression settle his soft features.

He lay in bed that night facing Lilly, not dreaming of war.

The morning came slowly. His eyes opened onto the image of bright sunlight, and it blinded him more and more as the fog of sleep cleared. The first sleep that had not been cryogenically induced in two years, and nothing compared to it. Birds chirped instead of the blowing of Kirkwood's favourite horn.

He did not want to think of Kirkwood now.

Michael turned to Lilly and touched the hand that rested on his chest. She shifted, but did not move otherwise. He was stuck, then.

He smiled, and kissed her.

"Michael," she spoke softly into his ear. "What happened to us? When you joined the Defence Forces, and we said goodbye. Did you lose faith?"

He turned his head to face her fully in the eyes. "Nothing happened. I asked you to take care of Mitchell, I asked you to put your world on hold, and promised to come back. I went to fight."

"Fight the ones who killed your parents?" she asked beseechingly. "You didn't just go to get away, Michael?"

Foster looked at her, lost for words. "I'm here, Lilly. It was for you, my family, and all I had left that I went. I believed that we could go on forever in happiness, but my call to duty was stronger than my selfish impulse." He wiped away a single tear with his hardened thumb, and purred into her ear. "You and Mitch are more important to me than anything that could possibly come between us. I will never leave you, but I had to fight for you."

She pushed her arms around his head and hugged him tightly, and he responded in kind, bracingly and without fear. "I'll wait for you, Michael, I promise. Whatever you need to do, you go and do it, just come back alive."

"Last night of stress leave, Barty."

His mug of beer fizzed under his nose and sent a sharp impulse to yawn and sneeze at the same time through his nervous system. The normal hours of sleep left him more disoriented than refreshed, thus his recent habit of nodding into his drink.

"Damn. And I thought I had problems with the new JUTON model. You're shipping out?"

The man beside him on the long, gleaming bar was a plump and podgy but genial original Russian come to harvest the cheap land of wild Tribute, and had been his most trusted friend before the surge of terrorism in 2499.

"My friend, you are one unlucky bastard, is what you are."

"Thanks a load, mate," Foster chuckled into his beer. "That makes me feel much better."

"You know what his war needs?" the overbearing Russian suggested in his thick accent, slamming his hand alarmingly on the metal bar as he did so. "Spartans."

Michael turned his dozing head lazily to scrutinize the man curiously for the first time that night. "What?"

"Spartans," he said again. As if it was obvious what he meant. "Don't tell me you've never heard… well, they were a group of three-hundred soldiers who were said to be unbeatable. They defended their home city of Sparta with world-renowned bravery and strength and earned the title of fiercest warriors ever to live." He looked around at the others around at the others seated around the bar. "No? We need some heroes to really win, to make the Insurrection fear us."

Foster snorted and drank deeply. "How do we do that? Spartans were trained in the ancient ways of combat from the age of six. All that the UNSC needs is people to pull the trigger and kill the bad guy with pieces of flying metal. What could be simpler?"

Bartrolavitch sat back contemplatively, then replied, "Of course, my mistake. And who can point the gun better than Michael Foster, Kilk Tribute's finest?"

All raised their mugs with a roar of manly agreement, and Foster raised his own modestly.

"I think I'll go back to the old homestead," Foster said to Bartrolavitch, then got up and exited the building onto the long street outside. It had been raining since he had arrived at the small Cantina an hour before, and darkness had cropped up from the opposite horizon. The edge of Kilk City was nothing special, 50-story high-rises giving way to sprawling wear-houses housing grain and corn. At this time of year, transport trucks filled underground motorways leading to the city's space elevator.

Few walked the alleyways at this time of night, apart from the odd couple or staggering drunk. He was affectively alone.

He strolled down the street, hands deep in his pockets, and whistling a merry farming tune that he had heard on the colonial broadcast channel that day in the barn. So much was new on this world that he felt newly born.

Michael rounded the corner, then stopped suddenly mid step, placing his foot silently on the rainy pavement and feeling cold metal at his side.

"Hey!"

For a heart-stopping moment, he turned and saw a hulking form running down the street, but then Bartrolavitch's waddling frame came scampering around the bend with his wallet in hand. "You left this."

Foster sighed and accepted the leather object graciously. "You gave me a start, Barty," he remarked, catching his breath and barely hiding the M6 in the sleeve of his coat.

"'s okay," the Russian said in a slurred voice. "The old gait is alarming sometimes."

With that, the man hiccupped once, turned, and started his long, hobbling journey back to the bar, and hopefully, Foster thought privately, a taxi.

"Good night my friend," was his last word before staggering around the corner, but his boisterously wide frame did not mask the covert shape of a man, perfectly stationary, his back to an old chain link gate.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Tenant of Sanctuary, _geosynchronous orbit around planet Reach, 2510, December 25th, 0300 hours

_Tenant of Sanctuary_- no flagship by any means. It looked more like a refugee transport than any ship of battle, sporting no MAC (Magnetic Acceleration Cannon) and with a very small fighter and Archer Missile complement, but that was of no matter. From the streamlined hull sprouted engine upon engine placed in overlapping streams to conduct the reactant heat into one massive stream which could be bent by the most powerful thrusters in the UNSC's arsenal. And made to withstand all of that manoeuvring was a Titanium-A polarized hull with honey-combs and ribbed supports galore, an overall structure which could weather a localized nuclear explosion with room to spare.

All of this, protected by a heavily-armed and battle-ready flotilla, was devoted to the safe transport of one Lord Fredric Caster, sitting in a rusted and steel-wrapped quarters, hastily outfitted with a cushioned mattress, a bookshelf, and a chair and working desk simply to keep him sane through the long, tedious trip to Reach, the top military and weapons development outpost outside Earth and her inner colonies.

He could see why he had been spared all the unnecessary niceties, observing the gloomy nature of the crew and interior design. They were all grey-faced and decidedly stale-looking—that was the only word for it—and the ruddy interior offered all the explanation needed. The floors, instead of the standard-issue rubberized shock-arresting plates, was made up of solid grating, and the walls had lost their sheen years ago, replaced by gritty rust that seemed to become even more prominent through numerous washings and cleanings.

In any case, he was most decidedly _safe_.

Caster drummed his long fingers on the metal desk and looked around for a viewing port, which, of course, was nowhere to be found. Even computer terminals were lacking in this tug. All expense, it seemed, had gone into the labour force who had installed the extra engines and supports, without the slightest thought to aesthetic satisfaction.

After minutes, the door did not slide open, but was actually _pushed_ open from the outside by a strong guard, grunting as he moved the neglected bulkhead. _Oh good, my room is watertight_.

He snapped to firm attention and executed a crisp salute before nodding to a rather diminished and small-looking person outside the room.

He walked in with a compact datapad clutched in his white-knuckled hands. "Terribly sorry to interrupt, sir, but a small Insurrectionist force is harassing our fleet. Just thought you ought to know. Are you enjoying your quarters, sir?"

The Lord whipped off his steel-rimmed glasses imperiously and scrutinized the small figure under a bird's eye. "No," was his simple answer. "But then, I did ask for maximum protection. Is this some kind of Navy joke? Throwing my orders in my face by giving me the bilge for a room?"

The feeble man, back on his heels, pressed his own horn-rimmed glasses further up on his sweaty nose. It was obvious that he was part of the _Tenant of Sanctuary's_ permanent administrative crew. "I assure you, sir, you have been given the most spacious lodging that the _Tenant_ has to offer."

Lord caster waved him away, and the guard escorted the man outside of the room, assault rifle ready across his torso.

_Insurrections, my ass, and just outside of the Reach defence grid, too. What a hilarious waste of time. _

Hours after the exchange, his airlock was pushed open again, and the attendant staggered in, nose even clammier than before.

"What?" asked Lord Caster sullenly.

"Sir… we have been informed that it is unsafe to transport you by Pelican to the surface at present, and so," he was twiddling his datapad at top speed now, blinking like an old movie projector. "They have come to the ship instead. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir."

Caster looked as if he were about to have a conniption in his desk chair, but restrained himself with difficulty, and said, "thank you, Mr…"

"Riss, sir."

"Riss. You have been most informative. You may go." He waved him off for the second time, then spoke to his guard. "Escort me to the briefing room."

He was guided through the corridors, flanked by his men, rifles totted menacingly at point and ready to fire at the slightest notice of unusual movement. More solemn faces greeted him in the hallways, and he forgave the lower officers for not saluting as he walked past them in the corridors, lit with ancient, less-than-therapeutic incandescents.

As they arrived in the briefing theatre, Lord Caster immediately wondered why they hadn't given this as his quarters. The chairs were at least minimally cushioned, and there was plenty of space, but that thought passed as he saw the scientist woman and her Admiral supervisor typing away on laptop computers.

The woman, just out of her teen years, not looking at her prime either, but comparatively tropical-looking, looked up from her work, hastily straightened up, and, unsure of what a civilian should do in the presence of high-rank, saluted sloppily.

Lord Caster returned with a two-fingered gesture, and sat in the fourth row of seats, squeezing his thin buttocks into the uncomfortably square seating.

"So, doctor," he addressed casually. "What do you have to show me?"

She cleared her throat nervously. "The future, sir."

Caster raised his eyebrow. "I'll be the judge of that," he said, and attempted to kick back in the hard seat with ineffective results.

"Human enhancement." A holographic representation of a human male appeared in the centre of the stage, average height and build, hairless and expressionless. "A fully comprehensive package of implants, biochemical enhancements, grafting on bones to create durability, and numerous neuro-stimulants designed to boost intellectual capacity, command skills, and overall speed. This human would be faster, stronger, and smarter than any other in the UNSC. We call them Spartans."

The Lord cocked his head to one side, curious, then remarked, "Very interesting, Mrs. Halsey." He watched as the man's musculature thickened and his shoulders broadened. "Truly amazing. But, is it realistically viable?"

"I assure you, it is," she guaranteed in a nervous yet stable voice. "As the mastermind of this project, I have taken it upon myself to consider every possible aspect of this, and it has proven consistently successful in every simulation, after some tweaking."

She looked at the Admiral, who nodded his OK, then continued at a run.

"Applications of this are specific to stealth infiltration, marksmanship, strategy, combat scenarios, and multiple ship-to ship scenarios. They will also retain visual imagery, numerical data, and miscellaneous facts better than any tested subject. Fully battle-capable within a month of the operation."

She paused, waiting for Lord Caster to speak.

"What do you want from me, Doctor?" he enquired, an open expression on his severe face. "You have my full attention."

"Your go-ahead, sir," she stated boldly, deactivating the hologram. "And finances. Calculations have not been yet made, but we already predict that this will be a multibillion-dollar enterprise."

"Done."

Halsey recoiled slightly, taken aback. "What?"

Caster put on a bemused expression. "I like this. If this works, it could be a huge asset to our cause against terrorism, and the UNSCDF in the future, so done."

Dr. Halsey made to speak several times, opening and closing her jaw uncertainly, then finally said, "Thank you, Lord Caster."

"So what's the next step?" he asked promptly.

"Well," the Doctor said. "Ideally, we would begin gathering volunteers and screening them for genetic match—the process is very selective—and prepare a test subject. After that is done, we have prepared a regiment of tests that will push the endurance of the subject and we will tell the true effectiveness of the enhancements."

"I'll see to it," he promised, then stood. "I look forward to seeing more of your program, Doctor. Don't let me down." He executed a rather unnecessary, though casual, salute, and exited the chamber, following his escort down the hall. "Anything to get off this damned crate."

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief as the last of them exited to the hall, and the Admiral approached. "You did good, Doctor," he assured, helping to pack up the laptops in cushioned bags and storing the projector disk. "But I have to say, he didn't need too much convincing."

They finished stowing away their electronic cargo, and marched down to the Pelican drop ship. Along dank hallways they walked, passing by the space-sick and pale technicians and navy hands dressed in grey to match their faces. When they at last found themselves in the landing bay, a surprisingly low-ceilinged room with exposed girders and freezing pipelines, but this time with a sheet-metal floor, they located their squat Pelican and settled into hard benches on either side of the blood tray of the transport, elbows on thighs, chins in hands, in the same posture.

"So," he said in his heavy voice, gazing at the small window that showed the hangar bay of the _Tenant_ shrinking away in space. "This-"

A shockwave sent a percussive shudder through the Pelican, sending it lurching through space, the Orbital Defence Platforms, sliding past at dangerous speeds, and the glowing atmosphere of Reach growing past the forward view screen. Halsey looked back at the _Tenant_, and saw torrents of fire blossoming all over her hull. The frigates flanking the ship reared away from the exploding wreck, emergency thrusters firing.

The Admiral pulled restraints across his body and settled back into the padded metal bulkhead. Dr. Halsey attempted to mimic him, but found that her straps were pulled too tight. She didn't have the sense to pull them into a longer position and secure herself, but she held onto the mesh above her head.

"Pilot!" Admiral Koorta screamed over the protesting whine of the engines and corrective thruster bursts. "What's the situation?"

The pilot responded, but could not be heard, and was far too occupied with keeping the vehicle steady and staying out of the Navy's way to try again.

Another glance out the back view port told Halsey that they were in a constant, swerving yaw-spin, and heading rapidly towards Reach's gravity well, gathering speed and entering terminal velocity.

"Damn it." He looked at Halsey in desperation. "We're gonna' burn up!" His frustrated face turned back to the cockpit, but the accusing stare was short-lived. The two-man room tore away, ripping power cables and control-clusters with it. Their spin increased, and Halsey vomited disgustingly into zero-gravity. She floated up into the air as the troop-bay section was sealed off from the nonexistent cockpit, and adjusted her grip on the mesh, entangling her entire body in the hanging stuff in desperate preparation for the landing.

The Admiral was tapping away at a control pad to his right, transferring controls to his terminal. A continuous starboard thruster-burn put them tail-first towards the planet, nose trailing power-cables and sporting no heat-shielding essential for re-entry. However, the rain of debris was not over as they plummeted to atmosphere-level. They were knocked off-course yet again, and the nose spun forward into the path of re-entry.

Koorta rummaged above himself as the electronics melted and disabled his command of the drop ship, and produced a parachute, which he threw at Halsey. She hastily let go of the netting and cinched herself in.

The wall at the nose blew away, and fire licked through the cabin. The pressure completely ejected the aft hatch, and the last thing that Halsey did before entering freefall was let go and look directly into Koorta's apologetic eyes.

She flew out the back of the burning wreck, and opened her limbs. She counted steadily to twenty, then pulled hard at the release chord. The pack opened, and the chute opened with a pop of semi-explosive pins.

Her disoriented mind overloaded with the exertion of pulling the chord, and she either went into shock, or passed out.

The escape pod lurched violently as craft launched support cables and pulled the craft out of freefall and towards one of the six ODPs (Orbital Defence Platforms) in the Reach Defence Grid. The whiplash did not hurt him more than the thorough case of shellshock that he was experiencing. The _Tenant of Sanctuary_ was indestructible. And Riss… terrible. But life goes on.

He braced against the frame of his solid crash seat, and looked out the forward view screen.

The station growing ever larger in his one field of vision was not a pretty thing, a bulky satellite sporting one central mass driver ribbed with magnetic rings, bisecting countless grids of manned space and unwieldy generators and magnetic tributaries clustered fore and aft. Docking umbilicals snaked out in all directions, connecting to Prowler and Frigate vessels which were dwarfed by the huge MAC and disconnecting rapidly. He knew they wouldn't find anything, for the Insurrection used suicide bombers more often than not. And for all he knew, it could have been Riss, or Halsey…

No, he thought at length, _She's far too clever for political assassination. She devotes her time to more worthwhile endeavours. _Her Spartan program had been a stimulating idea, but what she did not know was that he had been briefed on the program prior to her presentation, wishing to appear confident and assured, able to make spur-of-the-moment decisions and snub anyone he wanted. Well, all of that would be eclipsed by this.

Fortunately though, he was alive, and floating towards rescue.

Then Lord Caster smiled. A craft he knew very well had just flitted across the narrow viewing screen. It was roughly cylindrical, bristling with thruster output cones, and hollow. As it moved past, its belly plate slid out of sight, flush with a small inner pocket, to reveal a module just large enough to mate with the cramped escape capsule.

Sure enough, moments later he heard a loud, grinding bang as clamps engaged all along the top of the pod, merging it with the vehicle he now remembered as one of the RX311S9 Pod Extraction Remote prototype line, which he had passed earlier that year for the quick, inexpensive salvage of escape pods in friendly territory, which had become increasingly essential ever since the outbreak of the new rebel threat.

He saw space rotate smoothly as he was guided in an arc away from the planet and toward the looming station.

Moments later, the steel of the platform was all that he could see for kilometres, all conduits, pressure hatches and sensory equipment.

An atmospheric field slithered past the external camera, and he could see technicians swarming past, scampering to detach the mated vehicles and free up the PER, doubtless for the fifty other escape pods aboard the _Tenant of Sanctuary_. One loud clunk, and he dropped, rather hard, onto the deck. Then, another loud noise, and the firing pins were externally activated. Nearly half of the cylindrical hull broke away and, leaning on that particular stretch of bulkhead, he toppled out.

Rather flustered, he got up and looked around him. All manner of craft sprawled out across this bay, from Shortsword bombers and Longsword fighters to Falcon Hot Insertion Craft to Hummingbird Heavy Transports, all sprouting fuel lines, servo-sockets meant to carry various weaponry, and servicing Techs. The room itself was cavernous, spanning at least three hundred square metres of floor space and snaked with conduits all over its high ceiling. It was all such a contrast to the vessel he had just vacated that he felt quite dizzy.

He was still not quite sure, however, of how he felt about it. The politics behind this behemoth had taken place far before his time as Lord and Protector of Earth and All Her Colonies, and therefore his ardent vote against the construction of the very first MAC defence platform had been vetoed instantly. As the years had passed, and billions had been committed to the massive undertaking, he had begun to foster a soft spot for the technological terror. It would usher in a new age, an age in which the UNSC would be impenetrable to any large-scale attack. But it was still a lot of money, and now that he had a viable replacement candidate, he would be delaying the project and infuriating the admiralty, thus further asserting his authority.

But in the now, he was suffering the onset of vertigo and ballroom syndrome, further heightening the chronic headache had had been fighting for days since his arrival in Reach territorial space.

"Sir, are you alright?" It was the anxious voice of what seemed to be a low-ranking officer, accompanied by the discordant sounds of three sets of footsteps, for Caster had shut his eyes very tightly and gripped his forehead in annoyance.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," he said impatiently, opening his eyes and forcing them not to water in the glaringly floodlit bay. "Who's in charge here?"

"Grand Admiral Hood, sir," supplied the officer, "If you're talking the entire station. But the TacRep for Habitat Gamma is Colonel Lindsu. He's a bit tied up at the moment, 'cause we're co-ordinating a lot of patrol allocations and launches to try and investigate this shitshow—er, nuke, sir." He finished this report with a sheepish stutter, but Caster took no notice. Tech crews were flooding into two of the Hummingbirds while hiking their zero g gear and thruster packs higher on their backs, and still more personnel were lining the narrow mission control band windows striping the back wall of the hangar, either immersed in the operation of countless more remotes and other recovery vehicles, or commanding further launch protocols. It struck him just how many people must be here. At roughly one person every two square metres, at least by this sector's example, and in this huge a station, there must be tens of thousands of people, probably enough man power to comfortably maintain a small fleet. This brought more pangs of pre-campaign grievances, which he bravely endeavoured to quash.

The noise was mounting now, thrusters powering up, hydraulics pitching and realigning experimentally with loud hissing sounds in quick pre-launch checklists, and rampies disconnecting fluid and power lines and hurrying to the safezone barriers behind pinstriped yellow lines, and Caster motioned for the nervous officer and his three aids to accompany him. They marched beyond the boundary of rising barriers and on to a wide maintenance door. One of the nondescript aids hurried forward and keyed the door control to the right, and the two halves of the door split horizontally and slid slowly out of sight with a slightly ear-popping hiss.

Once they were through, and the door was closing behind them, he got his first look at the four men standing anxiously in his wake. They were a young bunch with a tailored, unruffled look that belied their obvious apprehensions, all smooth chins and neat, oiled parts on their unadorned crowns. Though suited in white navy uniforms, in was clear from their under-ornamented chests that they were barely more than cadets, serving as simple welcoming committees when their superiors were too busy. At opposite ends of the caste spectrum, he ushered them, not unkindly, to follow him still further. They immerged from the wide hallway into a similarly large motorpool. This was lined on all sides by cramped service partitions that housed mostly warthogs, though Cobras, Wolvarines, and other tank variants had been squeezed in. On the far wall was a line of lift doors flanked by opposite, curving vehicle ramps that doubled back and led to higher levels and yet more vehicles. Looking up, he saw the occasional bulky warthog whirr across the reinforced grating on some repair errant or other.

Caster eyed the lifts apprehensively, but the young officer stepped forward promptly. "We've arranged for small transport to get you up to Station Ops ASAP, sir. They should be arriving in moments."

Sure enough, a buzz of higher, less laborious engines drew closer until a number of nimble maglev carts came steadily down the left ramp; five of them, forming a kind of motorcade. The driver seated in the smooth contraption in the middle of the four-pod square threw open the passenger door to the open-air cab and said, "Get in, sir. We're instructed to escort you to the Grand Admiral."

Caster stepped into the closest cart, which hardly sagged under his weight and whirred off up the same ramp.

G-forces pulled him sideways in earnest, but he held on in earnest. He gave the driver a reproachful look, but he remained stony-faced and kept on his way. Clearly there was some hurry, some yet undisclosed urgency. He knew that he would demand a debriefing immediately upon entering the ops center.

The cart whizzed smoothly along hallways and up ramps until they were traveling along the very backbone of the wide open troop-section: the proverbial bloodtray. A monumental bulkhead was nearing, a great sectional divide, completely windowless and reinforced in the case of total decompression. It was for expediency's sake that all the decks of the troop-section had been left open-air, because negotiating such large-scale responses as the station already constituted on its own could not afford to be bottlenecked in hallways, however large. This was a leap of faith, but not crazy. The layered hulls of the gigantic weaponized satellite were each honeycombed, reinforced, and galvanized enough to make any welder bleed from the eyes at the mere sight.

However, he still felt easier as the grey solidity passed reassuringly by with a slight whoosh and change of air pressure. They climbed three more offramps to their respective levels, which were merely tunnels with thin track and overhead lights, until they immerged into the forward command bubble, several kilometres later. It was called a bubble for want of a better word. The expansive, curving windows, though flush with a jutting, solid structure at the very end of the gigantic saucer, afforded a one hundred-eighty-degree view of the star field. It was now bristling in the distance with multiple points of light which Caster took as exit vectors.

The grand admiral stood erect on the platform past a protective rail which blocked the motor tunnel from the ops center. As Caster stepped out of the side seat without thanking the driver, he noted that every one of the fifty or so consoles was occupied, each dancing with a myriad of tactical information in the form of ghostly holography.

The Admiral turned at the sound of the carts' engines and dismissed them with a wave. He then saluted stiffly, to which Caster replied with a slightly less erect version.

He walked forward and around the rail to stand with the man in front of an overlay of the stars. "I've heard there's been some sort of commotion," Caster said casually, though really he wondered sincerely what was going on and why he couldn't just retire and settle the matter of the cleanup another time, or, better yet, delegate it to the esteemed admiral.

"It seemed somebody jumped the gun when they tried to kill you," the Grand Admiral said in a low, rumbling voice that belied his tall stature. "Those approaches are from registered Shaw Fujikawa drives, all stolen, and all black marketed unlaundered. Either someone out there is hoping for some kind of reward from you, or is extremely stupid. They're coming in now."

Grand Admiral Hood was a fairly blunt man, but a brilliant tactician, though this was shaping up to be something of a turkey-shoot in Caster's opinion. The admiral was merely doing things by the book by calling all his officers from their beds.

The Insurrectionist ships were many, but junky, even from a distance. Fifteen Chiropters slipped in on minimum power—he read so on the field overlay before his nose—and within seconds began powering up at once, seeing that the UNSC were already armed for bear. The stars began scrolling upwards immediately, making Caster feel slightly nauseous, and he heard the tremendous whirring of magnetic coils being charged with energy. The sound was like all the air of the ship being sucked into a thousand fissures, and the one after that was like as many gigantic bells as a chunk of tungsten the size of a small ship was spat instantly into the small battlegroup.

Fourteen more shells followed this one from various vessels around the battle station and turned the offending ships into vapour. As the co-ordinated fire let of a few more rounds just to make sure, Caster tipped his hat to the Grand Admiral and turned, only to find the carts were gone. It was by no means slick, he thought as he jabbed the call button on the rear panel. But it might have had a snowball's chance in hell of making it at least into orbit if the sensor circle had not been widened ahead of time by the explosion of his ship, which he would not have lamented but for the hundreds dead. It was, he thought, part of the sacrifice he made every day as Lord and Protector.


End file.
